


the flames will die, and so will i

by lalaland666 (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Discorporation (Good Omens), Gabriel is a jerk, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), References to Torture, Würzburg Witch Trials, heaven sucks, lots of comfort, theres only a mild amount of hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22291579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lalaland666
Summary: Aziraphale was only ever discorporated twice. The second was during the failed Armageddon; it was quick, and largely painless, and Aziraphale managed to avoid the paperwork required to get a new body, which was the real relief of the whole thing.The first time was not nearly so quick.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 263
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	the flames will die, and so will i

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Oh, the last one was dark, maybe I should post some fluff next– 
> 
> My brain: ÄNGST 
> 
> I hope it’s still decent!!

Aziraphale was only ever discorporated twice. The second time was during the failed Armageddon, when he stepped through the summoning circle; that hadn’t been so bad. It had been quick, and relatively painless, and Aziraphale hadn’t had to deal with the paperwork associated with getting a new body afterwards; if he was entirely honest, that was the greatest relief associated with the entire thing. 

The first time had not been so quick. 

Aziraphale had arrived in Würzburg, Germany in 1625, just after the first witch trial. The territorial feud between the Catholic Church and the newest strains of Protestantism had begun to get rather out of control, and Aziraphale had been sent to one of the epicenters in an effort to quell some of the panic. It hadn’t worked, of course; the panic escalated, despite Aziraphale’s very best efforts at seeding peace and harmony, and the executions began in earnest. 

Aziraphale hadn’t been entirely surprised to find Crowley there, as well. Surely Hell could also sense the discord and chaos emanating from the town, the rotting smell of panic and fear that morphed into evil and emanated from the Prince Bishop each time he deigned to emerge from his hiding place into the territory at large, into the cold and ice that had consumed all of Europe. 

Crowley couldn’t help Aziraphale, not without drawing far more attention than would ever have been safe; after all, he’d claimed to plant the seed of the idea in the Prince-Bishop’s mind, and so, much as it seemed to disgust him, his hands were tied. 

That didn’t stop him from visiting Aziraphale, however, in the little hut where Aziraphale lived, just on the outskirts of the city. He’d bring the angel stories of light and happiness, good tidings from other places in Europe where the fear wasn’t quite so thick, sometimes bringing a new variety of beer or even wine to accompany the stories, and they’d drink together into the wee hours of the morning. Aziraphale couldn’t have been more grateful to have the demon’s company. The fear was exhausting, a constant, oppressive weight all around him. It had been growing steadily for centuries, now, wearing Aziraphale down, hard as he tried to fight against it. Harder, perhaps, because of it. 

One night in 1629, four years into the lunacy Aziraphale was wearing himself ragged trying to quell, Crowley appeared at Aziraphale’s doorstep as always, holding a bottle of amber liquid in each hand and grinning. 

Aziraphale melted at the sight of him, inviting him in immediately. “Come in, dear, it’s freezing out. You’ll catch your death.” 

“Brought you a present,” Crowley said, making his way inside and collapsing as always onto Aziraphale’s sofa. “From a distillery on the Charente. They’re calling it ‘cognac’.” 

“After the town?” Aziraphale asked, his brow furrowing. 

Crowley nodded, opening up a bottle and holding it out to Aziraphale to sniff. 

Aziraphale obliged, blinking slightly in surprise when he did. “It’s _strong_.” 

“Perfect,” said Crowley, grinning. “Distillery’s only been open for five years, so it’s not quite as close to vinegar as the stuff you usually like, but–” 

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said, laughing. Crowley grinned, miracled up glasses for the both of them, and poured. 

They sat talking well into the night, just as always, and at around two in the morning, Crowley took his glasses off. The cognac was strong, stronger than most of the drinks they tended towards, and Aziraphale couldn’t say that he minded. There was a freedom about Crowley, a sort of inhibition, that he never had while sober. If it took them a bottle and a half less time than normal to get there, well, it was certainly cheaper that way. 

“Thinking I might take a nap here,” Crowley murmured at around two thirty, his head coming down to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale leaned into him, smiling. 

“You’re welcome to, if you want, my dearest.” 

“Turn into a snake,” Crowley mumbled, sliding lower down, his head nestling into Aziraphale’s lap. 

“M’not sure that’s smart,” said Aziraphale, petting Crowley’s hair. It was long, still, and he’d gotten rid of that ridiculous goatee of his. Aziraphale found he didn’t so much mind the way the fabric of Crowley’s shirt, doublet discarded, clung to his chest. He wasn’t entirely sure it was _meant_ to do so, but again, he didn’t really care. 

“Why not?” Crowley murmured, closing his eyes and leaning into Aziraphale’s hand. 

“M’ pretty certain it’s in- un- unhea- _bad_ for snakes to have... to be... to have so much cognac in them,” said Aziraphale. “And b’fore you… you say you’re not… not _really_ a snake…” 

“Nah, nah,” said Crowley, waving his hand lazily. “Point taken.” 

A knock sounded from Aziraphale’s door suddenly, loud and sudden, and Aziraphale froze, his hand freezing in Crowley’s hair. Had something happened? What was going on? 

“Stay here, angel, I’ll get it,” Crowley said, waving his hand at Aziraphale. 

“No, no, dear, they’re looking for me, I’m sure,” Aziraphale mumbled, screwing his eyes shut and sobering up forcefully. 

Then it hit him– he was sitting on the sofa, with Crowley’s head in his lap. That was _unspeakably_ dangerous, how _could_ he have even _considered_ doing such a thing, if anyone had seen–! 

Aziraphale pushed Crowley off of his lap as gently as he could manage in his haste and stood, fighting back his panic. No one had seen. They couldn’t have. The windows were shuttered, and they were inside, inside Aziraphale’s residence. Heaven was ever vigilant, but there was a certain respect for an angel’s private space. “I’m alright. Let me.” 

He made his way over to the door, feeling the way Crowley’s eyes lingered on him. 

“Herr Fell,” said the man at the door, tilting his head. He was small, smaller than Aziraphale, and his hair, which had been blonde not three years ago, was now white as the snow falling behind him. 

“Herr Spree,” said Aziraphale, and he felt the tiniest wave of surprise from Crowley behind him. “To what do I owe the honour?” 

“I have an urgent matter I must discuss with you,” said Herr Spree. “Concerning a certain Herr Crowley.” 

_Oh, dear. Who had seen him? Had he let someone see his eyes? Surely not. He was reckless, but not nearly that much so._

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, hurrying to press the confessor away, ever so slightly, hoping against all hope that he hadn’t seen Crowley inside Aziraphale’s home. “I’ll join you at the church, Herr Spree, in just a moment, never you fear.” 

“You swear it?” asked the Herr Spree, his voice low. 

“I do,” said Aziraphale. “And I’m a man of my word, you know that.” 

Herr Spree nodded, just once, then stepped back. “Ten minutes. Don’t be late.” 

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, letting out a nervous laugh. “Why would I ever be late? Never late, me. I’ll see you in ten! Pip-pip!” 

Then he shut the door hurriedly and turned to Crowley. 

The demon was sat up, his sunglasses back on his face, clearly sober once more. 

“You have to leave,” said Aziraphale. “Now. It’s not safe any longer.” 

“If _anyone_ needs to leave, angel–“ 

“If he’s asking after you, Crowley, that means he at the very least suspects something,” said Aziraphale, his voice bordering on pleading. “And if you get discorporated in the midst of the chaos that you ‘helped create’, I doubt Hell will take very kindly to it, will they?” 

Crowley’s jaw worked for a moment. 

Then he stood up, standing a hair’s breadth away from Aziraphale. 

“If they hurt you,” Crowley growled, low in his throat. “If they try to torture you, angel…” 

“They won’t,” Aziraphale assured him, reaching out and taking his hands, squeezing them tightly, just for a moment, before letting them fall once more, his own hands folding against his stomach. A reassurance, as much for himself as for Crowley. “I’ll be quite alright, my dear. Now _go,_ please, before someone comes back. I can take care of myself, but… but I’m not sure I’d be able to protect you. They use holy water at these things, Crowley.” 

Crowley stared down at Aziraphale for a long, long moment. 

Then he sighed heavily. “I’ll be back for you, angel, if they decide they’re–“ 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Aziraphale snapped, shaking his head just once, firmly. “You need to _leave_ , Crowley. If even one person has spotted you… they’ve killed nearly nine hundred people so far in the territory, and many of them were blessed beforehand. They won’t hesitate to do the same to you, especially if they see how you react to holy objects. You have to leave, really, truly _leave_ , and not come back. Do you understand?” 

“I’m not just gonna let them–“ Crowley protested. 

“They won’t hurt me,” Aziraphale said, trying to project more confidence than he felt. “I’ve quite gained their confidence at this point. You’re the one in danger, my dear. Please. You have to stay safe.” 

Crowley stared at Aziraphale for a long, long moment. 

Then he nodded, snapped his fingers, and vanished. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, smoothed down his rumpled clothing and tattered nerves, and headed out into the snow to face Herr Spree. 

When Aziraphale arrived at the church, Herr Spree was there already, sitting in one of the seats that had been erected near the front. 

One of the seats used by the confessors, in the witch trials. Used to… _convince_ perspective witches. 

Alongside him sat others– everyone important in the county. The mayor, the sheriff, the town’s judge. 

The Prince-Bishop. 

The church was lined with soldiers. 

Aziraphale felt his heart sink in his chest. 

“Herr Fell,” called Herr Spree, and Aziraphale’s eyes locked on him. “Tell us of your relationship with Herr Crowley.” 

“He’s– well– he– he’s a business associate. I hardly know him. Very rarely see him,” said Aziraphale, utterly taken aback by the presence of the Prince-Bishop. He only ever emerged nowadays for the… 

For the trials. 

Oh, no. 

“And are you aware of your… business associate’s… true nature?” asked Herr Spree coldly. 

“True nature?” Aziraphale asked, hands fluttering nervously at his sides before he clasped them together in front of his stomach, as much to ground himself as stop their motion. “I’m afraid I don’t know–“ 

“You have been seen consorting with a witch,” the Prince Bishop cut in sharply. “My soldiers have told it.” 

Oh, Lord. This would be difficult to get out of. 

It wasn’t that Aziraphale couldn’t just… miracle himself away. He could. He could also unfurl his wings and strike the fear of God, rather than witches, back into the hearts of these humans. 

But if he did that, there would be absolutely no saving any of them. Direct divine intervention was no promise of salvation, and Aziraphale was rather afraid that this town would take his appearance there in all his Heavenly glory as an endorsement of what they were doing, regardless of what he said to them. 

And then there was the issue of the miracles themselves… 

“I’m afraid I simply have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Aziraphale primly, squeezing his hands together more tightly, fighting back a nervous laugh. He had never been a very good liar. 

“I have seen the witch in your home,” said Herr Spree. “I saw it there, just this evening. I saw its evil eyes, and how you rested in an intimate position with it.” 

“It? He has a _name_!” Aziraphale protested, offended, before he could stop himself. Then he realised what else Herr Spree had said. “Wait. _Intimate position_? What on Earth–” 

“So you admit it!” said Herr Spree, triumphant. 

“I most certainly do not!” Aziraphale protested, rolling his eyes. “And I can guarantee you saw nothing this evening when you called upon me, Herr Spree, because there was nothing to be seen.” 

Herr Spree rose to his feet, leaning forwards towards Aziraphale, looking almost… _sad_. “If you confess to your ungodly relationship with Herr Crowley, Herr Fell, and repent for it… if you give up Herr Crowley… we shall let you go.” 

Aziraphale blinked, taken aback. Ungodly was... well, he supposed that Herr Spree was likely not entirely wrong about that aspect, even if he was entirely wrong about the actual nature of the relationship. It wasn’t... to think–! Not that Aziraphale ever had, of course. Not once. Never even considered it. And most certainly not with a _demon_. Aziraphale was an angel of the Lord, a loyal servant of Heaven, and he would never… 

Then, once again, an understanding of Herr Spree’s intended message hit Aziraphale like a wave. “You’ll _what_?” 

“Let you go,” repeated Herr Spree, and Aziraphale could feel it– he was telling the truth. “I like you, Herr Fell. I know you not to be an evil man. You have been bewitched. Been sullied, by this foul creature. Turn Herr Crowley over to us, and your life will be spared.” 

Aziraphale blinked again, frowning. “And if I do not?” 

Herr Spree’s brow furrowed. “I am giving you a chance to save your _life_ , Herr Fell, to repent for your sins–“ 

“If I do not give up this man,” said Aziraphale. “If I refuse. What will become of me?” 

Herr Spree sighed, sitting back in his chair. “You will be burned.” 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, steadying himself slightly. It would hurt. He had felt the pain of the dying, felt their anguish, felt the terror that consumed them moments before. It was one of the worst ways to go, quick though it tended to be. 

But he couldn’t give Crowley up. 

Holy objects were a standard affair in witch trials– consecrated ground, blessed blades. Holy water. Not potent, not the most powerful, but still easily strong enough to damage Crowley permanently, if he survived the experience. 

Aziraphale shook his head. “I will not hand over an innocent man to be tortured to death, Herr Spree. Thank you very much.” 

“Herr Fell, you are a good man!” protested the mayor. “You have been _bewitched_ into… into immoral, immodest acts with a devilish creature. You must snap out of it!” 

“Am I to receive a proper trial, or have you already decided as to my guilt?” Aziraphale asked impishly, crossing his arms, threading the slightest hint of power into his voice– just the barest suggestion. He had never been terribly good at temptation, at sowing the seeds of doubt, not nearly as good as Crowley was, but perhaps… perhaps that was the only option left to him, at this stage. If he could make Herr Spree doubt, or even better, the Prince-Bishop– 

“You have as good as confessed to your affections for the witch,” said Herr Spree, his brow furrowing. 

Aziraphale reached out with his aura, searching for the thoughts in the minds of the men sat before him. His little temptation had taken with Herr Spree, though he didn’t know it yet– it was all Aziraphale could do to hope it would work. He didn’t dare do much more, not with so many witnesses. He tended to glow if he tempted too thoroughly. 

The Prince-Bishop was entirely unswayed. He glared at Aziraphale, lips pressed into a thin line, pale eyes cold and unyielding. 

Aziraphale thought of Crowley’s eyes, yellow bleeding out into the whites, finally visible from behind his glasses, warm and inviting and uninhibited. 

“If you do not either confess to your own witchcraft, or agree to give in Herr Crowley, we will torture you,” said the Prince-Bishop, and even his voice was cold and biting. 

“As you have tortured so many others,” Aziraphale murmured, suppressing a shudder at the thought. He’d tried to provide what comfort he could to the poor souls that had suffered under the Prince-Bishop’s hands, but it hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough. Never enough. 

“You can still save yourself,” said Herr Spree, leaning forwards, practically pleading. “I know you to be a good man at heart, Herr Fell.” 

“As I believe you still could be, some day,” said Aziraphale, sighing. “I will not give over an innocent man to your barbaric methods.” 

“When he returns for you, we will still kill him!” said the Prince-Bishop, his face going red with rage. “You cannot protect the witch!” 

Aziraphale paused for a moment. 

He had been created a warrior all those eons ago. He was built to withstand pain, meant to tolerate any agony that could be thrust upon him. He’d fought in the very first War, had been injured horribly in it and fought on despite the pain. He could withstand torture, if he needed to. 

But this would end in his discorporation, no matter what method that end was reached by, and if Aziraphale could avoid at least some of the pain on the way, and perhaps plant just a little bit more doubt…? 

“Clearly I can’t,” said Aziraphale, “as I hear you’re to burn me quite soon.” 

Herr Spree’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping. “Herr Fell… you… you can’t…” 

Aziraphale couldn’t convince this territory not to believe in witches, not if he had a million years to work. Not with the way things were going. 

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t stop some of the carnage, late though it was. 

“I am confessing to witchcraft,” said Aziraphale, tilting his chin up. “Under threat of torture.” 

“No!” protested Herr Spree. 

“Are you to refute a confession of witchcraft?” asked the Prince-Bishop, his voice low and dangerous. 

Herr Spree shook his head. “No. I just… it… it’s not possible, Herr Fell, you’re a _good man_ –“ 

“Any powers I have were used solely for good,” said Aziraphale. “How else do you believe I was able to heal so many? To bring so much warmth? But if I am to die, I would rather do it in the way that is least painful. I’d rather not suffer, as you have made so many suffer before me, and will continue to do so despite any efforts I make here today. So I confess. I am a witch. When am I meant to burn?” 

“We must do it now!” the Prince-Bishop yelled, leaping to his feet. He would never be swayed, Aziraphale knew. He was a lost cause. 

But Herr Spree, it seemed, already was. 

“Your Grace–“ Herr Spree began, quietly. 

“Men!” the Prince-Bishop called, seemingly entirely unaware of Herr Spree’s words. “Begin to erect the pyre. I’m sure there are more witches in the dungeon who could burn tonight, but this one shall die first. Cuff him. Do not let him escape.” 

Herr Spree ducked his head and hastened to comply. 

Aziraphale was struck, quite suddenly, with the familiarity of him– a small, white-haired man, cowed by those far more powerful than he, helpless but to follow their orders. 

_It’s different,_ Aziraphale thought, as his wrists were bound rather roughly behind his back and he was dragged out into the square, heedless of the cold, of the snow beginning to fall. _I am doing the Lord’s work. Herr Spree is not helpless. He is human. He has the choice to change things. All of them do. I am an angel. I don’t get that choice._

He bit back a shiver, watching as the soldiers from within the church began to stack up wood, first larger blocks that would ensure that Aziraphale burned for quite long enough to disintegrate entirely, topping them with kindling light enough to catch easily. 

It would be over soon enough. 

Aziraphale tested his bonds, ever so carefully. There was no give to them. No getting out of this. He had been reprimanded, not half a century ago yet, for using a miracle to escape a similar fate up in North Berwick. Saving his corporation was considered to be frivolous, an unnecessary use of miraculous power. There would be no teleporting away, this time. 

He could have miracled off the bonds fairly innocuously– but then, he would have had to actually _escape_ , and Aziraphale had no interest in fighting his way through so very many soldiers, and whatever bystanders might have decided to try and make themselves “useful” in the scuffle. It wasn’t so much that he _couldn’t_ – he could, of course, he hadn’t been given the job to guard the gate of Eden for no reason. He just very much did not want to. 

There would be no getting out of this, then. Aziraphale was to burn. 

The pyre was constructed remarkably quickly, considering the hour of the night– a fact that Aziraphale remembered quite suddenly as the first spectators began to emerge into the street, eyes still gummed up with sleep, clutching cloaks over their nightclothes. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” called the Prince-Bishop from atop the rather well-cemented platform in the town square. “You are to watch the death of a confessed witch, Herr Ezra Fell.” 

There were gasps, and titters, and Aziraphale felt absurdly proud at that– no one here believed him to be a witch. Well, that was better than he could have hoped for. 

It felt wrong, somehow, to be sowing doubt, though he knew it was the right thing to do here. It felt… distinctly unholy. 

Aziraphale pushed the thought away. He couldn’t allow himself to doubt, not now. This was the only thing left for him to do. Allow himself to be discorporated, and urge along the end of the trials in the process. He had to stay strong. 

For whatever reason, Aziraphale thought again of Crowley, of the concern on his face just before he’d left. 

He could never know about this. Aziraphale knew he would blame himself if he ever found out. So he must not. Not ever. 

Aziraphale noticed that the Prince-Bishop was staring at him, almost expectantly. Waiting for him. 

Waiting for him to walk to his death. 

Aziraphale had attended enough burnings to know how this normally went. The accused would cry, scream, plead, or else would stand stock-still and shocked, and either way they would need to be dragged to their pyre, tied there against their will. 

Sighing, Aziraphale stepped forwards of his own accord, crossing the distance and climbing onto what amounted to his deathbed. 

The Prince-Bishop stared at him, mouth agape. 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow expectantly. 

“Uh,” the Prince-Bishop said. “Um. H-Herr Ezra Fell. I hearby sentence you to burn at the stake for the crime of witchcraft. You will burn, not just here, but for all eternity in the pits of Hell–“ 

“Yes, yes,” said Aziraphale, rolling his eyes, largely to belie his nerves, though the Hell speech was certainly ridiculous enough to merit scorn. Especially in his case. “Can we get on with it? You’ve awoken all these lovely people, and I’m sure they’re all quite eager to go back to sleep.” 

There was more muttering, more tittering about. 

The Prince-Bishop nodded, eyes wide, jaw hanging open. 

Then he seemed to gather his wits. 

“Light him!” he barked down to the guards. 

They obeyed, and Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut, sucking in one last breath. He wouldn’t breath in the smoke, he decided– it would only serve to make him further miserable. 

The kindling beneath Aziraphale’s feet lit, and the fire spread. 

And, oh, it _burned_ , the way the flames licked at his flesh. Aziraphale couldn’t hold back a cry, the pain washing through him in waves, whiting out his vision, his hearing, everything. He was passing out. He wouldn’t be conscious through his death. 

Aziraphale’s last thought was to laugh at that, slim comfort though it was. _Perhaps it’s a miracle, after all._

Then everything went dark, and not a minute later, the Principality Aziraphale died. 

### 

Aziraphale rematerialized with a gasp, stumbling to the side– the old war-wound in his hip smarted. Not his corporeal hip. His ethereal hip. It had never quite healed properly, in his celestial form, even after so many thousands of years, and an indeterminable period before that, before time began. 

He was in Heaven once more, in its blindingly brilliant halls, in his celestial form, which was a near-perfect imitation of his human one. Or, more accurately, his human form was an imitation of his celestial one– after all, the celestial one had come first. 

“Principality Aziraphale?” A voice sounded– cold, amused. It was Uriel. “You’re not meant to be up for a report for another two weeks. How’re the humans doing?” 

Aziraphale steadied himself with a breath. He could still feel the phantom pains of the flames, eating away at his feet, the white-hot agony of it, but he forced himself to ignore it, stepping towards Uriel, who was watching him with a slightly bemused expression on their face. 

“Uriel,” said Aziraphale, smiling slightly. “Um. The humans are… well, I do hope I’ve made some progress on them recently. Um. Particularly recently. But, uh, there is… well. There is a slightly… a slightly more pressing matter…” 

“What did you mess up this time, Aziraphale?” asked another voice, from just over Aziraphale’s right shoulder. 

Gabriel. 

Aziraphale bit back his panic at the archangel’s sudden appearance, turning instead to face him. “I didn’t– I didn’t mess anything up. I was simply… forced to resort to extreme measures, in the quelling of the witch trials in Würzburg.” 

“What did I tell you, right from the start?” asked Gabriel, grinning. “Divine fury. Never fails. Throw in a good smiting, and you’re right as rain, every time. Just look at Sandalphon. One hundred percent success rate, there!” 

Aziraphale bit back a flinch at that. _There is no success to be had in wiping entire cities off the face of the Earth. Not even if there’s a war coming._

Instead of saying that, Aziraphale just cleared his throat. “Ah. Yes. Well. It wasn’t quite… not quite like _that_ –“ 

“Wait a second,” said Uriel. “You’re missing your body.” 

Aziraphale turned to face them, just for a moment, before turning back to Gabriel, his hands fluttering at his sides. “Yes. That is… um. That is the, uh, the pressing matter of which I was speaking. I was… well, I was...” He waved his hand, making a little _poof_ with his fingers. “Discorporated.” 

“You were _what_?” asked Gabriel, his voice low and almost dangerous. 

Aziraphale steeled himself. “Dis… um. Discorporated. And I was, well, I was rather hoping, that I could be– be granted a new corporation, and perhaps– perhaps return to work?” 

“You want to go back there?” asked Gabriel, his nose wrinkling in disgust. 

“Not back to Würzburg, no, of course,” said Aziraphale quickly. “I was thinking–“ 

“No, not Germany,” said Gabriel, waving his hand dismissively, before tilting his head. “Well, I guess, yeah, Germany. All of Earth. Why would you _ever_ want to go back there, when you could have the option not to?” Then he took a step forwards. “And how exactly did you manage to get discorporated?” 

Aziraphale forced himself not to back up– not that it would have done much good. Uriel was hovering behind him, blocking his escape route. 

Not an escape route. He was talking to his boss. He wouldn’t want to escape from that, that was absurd! 

“I, um. Well. To answer the first question, is it not– is it not my job, to guard over the Earth? To watch over humanity?” He cleared his throat, squeezing his hands together in front of himself. “If– if I’m to be reassigned–“ 

“No, no, you won’t be,” said Gabriel, sighing. “Providing you can give me a good explanation as to how you so carelessly lost us a corporation. Those things are expensive, Aziraphale.” 

“Do I not– do we not have backups?” Aziraphale asked, blinking. He had been under the impression– 

“One,” said Uriel. “All the Principalities have one backup body.” They took a half a step forwards. “And it seems like you’re using up yours.” 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, nodding, laughing nervously. “Right. Of– of course.” 

“How did you get discorporated?” Gabriel asked, his violet eyes boring into Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale swallowed. “I, um. I was h-healing, yes, I was healing some of the– of the accused women and children, trying to– to ease their suffering, and the– the confessors found me there, and assumed I was– I was consorting with them. The... accused.” He took a breath, steadying himself as quickly as he could. It didn’t really work. “I was burned.” 

“And you just _let_ them?” asked Gabriel coldly. 

“The– the last time I was in danger of discorporation, I was– I was reprimanded–“ Aziraphale stammered. 

Gabriel took a step closer as well, hemming Aziraphale in, and Aziraphale froze, his breathing stilling, his not-quite-heart racing. 

“You get one more shot,” said Gabriel. “No more backup bodies. Uriel’s right. If you discorporate this one, too, we’ll be annoyed.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “I– I understand, Gabriel. I’m sorry.” 

“Hm,” said Gabriel, looking Aziraphale over. “We’ll see.” 

He reached out, gripping Aziraphale’s shoulder tightly, his fingers digging into the not-quite-flesh there. 

“And, Aziraphale?” 

“Y-yes?” Aziraphale stammered. Why was he so afraid? Gabriel wouldn’t hurt him. They were angels. They didn’t hurt each other. That would be absurd. 

“Take better care of this corporation, yeah?” said Gabriel, grinning, clapping Aziraphale on the shoulder– hard. “Cut back on the… the whole ‘consuming matter’ nonsense.” He shuddered, then stepped back. “Your new corporation’s over here. We’ll send you back down to England. Base you there for a while. Lord knows they’re crazy enough to need it.” 

“Very well,” said Aziraphale, breathing a sigh of relief at the distance, before following Gabriel deeper into Heaven, to retrieve his corporation. 

### 

Crowley found Aziraphale two weeks later, back in London. He arrived on the doorstep of Aziraphale’s new flat, bearing a bottle of cognac and a grin. 

“Thought this stuff was good,” he offered, holding it out. “If you wanted to try it again.” 

Aziraphale remembered it, remembered that it certainly _was_ good. Remembered the feel of Crowley’s head in his lap, how his hair had been softer than Aziraphale had ever imagined it being. 

It was far _too_ good. 

“I think… we perhaps… should avoid that, in future,” said Aziraphale. “We. Um. It’s…” 

“Oh,” said Crowley, tucking the cognac away behind his back, where it vanished. “Right. I, um. I… I get it, angel. I’m… I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, don’t you be sorry,” said Aziraphale, waving his hand airily to try and dispel Crowley’s concerns. “Do come in, my dear, it looks as though it’ll start raining any second now.” 

“Right,” said Crowley, stepping inside. “Um. D’you... d’you still…?” 

“I wouldn’t say no to wine,” said Aziraphale. “If you were amiable.” 

“‘Course I am, angel,” said Crowley, grinning up at Aziraphale. 

Then his grin faded. “Heard that things are starting to calm down in Würzburg.” 

“So I heard,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley’s eyes were hidden behind his glasses, and his expression was inscrutable. “Did they… were you…” 

“No, not at all,” Aziraphale said, not letting Crowley finish his question. If Crowley didn’t actually say it out loud, perhaps it wouldn’t be a lie to deny it. “I was just reassigned. Heaven thought it a lost cause.” 

“Seems like they might’ve been wrong,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably at that. “Well. It– the– the humans do have ways of surprising us, I suppose. Even after everything.” 

“You’re sure you’re alright?” asked Crowley, taking a half a step closer– still far out of Aziraphale’s personal space, not even coming close to touching him. “They didn’t hurt you? They were brutal there, angel, I saw it–“ 

“They didn’t hurt me,” Aziraphale lied, smiling as reassuringly as he could manage. No way out of lying there, not without worrying the demon terribly, and Aziraphale was loathe to do that, even if he couldn’t particularly pin down why. “I’m perfectly alright, Crowley. After all, I’m still here, am I not?” 

Crowley nodded, slowly, seeming to relax, before turning and making his way further into the flat. “Right, then. What kinds of wine have you got?” 

###

Aziraphale had been discorporated again. 

He had known he only had one more chance, and he’d come frightfully close more than once to losing it– but Crowley had rescued him, each and every time. No matter if they’d been quarreling for eighty years beforehand. No matter what. 

Until he hadn’t. And it obviously was not Crowley’s fault that Aziraphale acted an idiot, and all Aziraphale could really feel about the whole thing was guilty that he hadn’t been there to protect Crowley when he’d needed him. Like Crowley always had been. 

Aziraphale had dived back down to Earth, quite certain he would bounce from body to body for eternity. Then Adam had done it, granted him an impossible second chance at life, granted the whole _world_ its impossible second chance. And then he and Crowley had avoided their executions, and they’d gone for lunch to the Ritz, and Aziraphale was free and happy. 

When they arrived back at the bookshop after lunch, Crowley’s breath had hissed in, ever so slightly, and Aziraphale turned to him, his brow furrowing. 

“My dearest,” said Aziraphale, reaching out, taking Crowley’s hand– _I can do that, I can take his hand, I can comfort him out in public, and no one can say anything to me about it!_ – and trying to meet his eyes through the glasses. “Are you alright?” 

“M’fine, angel,” Crowley muttered, not looking at Aziraphale, though he gripped the angel’s hand tightly. “Let’s head in, yeah? You’ve got a few new additions I think you’ll want to look at.” 

Aziraphale frowned at that, his lips pursed, but headed inside, and Crowley was quite right, the new books were certainly… something. Aziraphale appreciated them nonetheless, of course, whether or not they were an intentional gift. 

Through it all, as Aziraphale wandered amongst the shelves, Crowley refused to let go of his hand, gripping more tightly each time Aziraphale made to pull away. 

Finally, they settled down in the back room, both of them on the sofa– they were sitting together on the sofa. They hadn’t done that, before last night, since… 

Well. 

Since 1629. 

Aziraphale tried to pull his hand free once more, but Crowley just redoubled his grip, squeezing so tightly that it almost hurt. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice as gentle as he could make it, turning to face his demon. “My dearest. If you’d like anything to drink, I really must have my hand back to fetch it for you–“ 

“I thought I lost you,” said Crowley, his voice quiet. 

Aziraphale froze. “You… what?” 

“I thought I lost you, angel,” said Crowley again, his voice still so soft that Aziraphale had to strain to hear it. “Right here. I was in this blasted bookshop, and the whole thing was on fire, and–“ 

“You _went in_?” Aziraphale gasped. 

“‘Course I did,” said Crowley, shrugging. “M’a demon. Fire doesn’t bother me.” 

“That’s a lie, and we both know it,” Aziraphale said, frowning. “Why did you go in?” 

“Because I couldn’t feel you!” Crowley said, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t feel you, angel, it was like you were just… just _gone_. It was like when… when you’re so far away I can’t get to you, like when you’d go over to America for a few days, but it was _worse_ , you _weren’t there_ and the bookshop was on fire and I thought… I thought…” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, reaching out, pulling Crowley into his arms, and the demon went willingly, collapsing up against Aziraphale’s chest, body shaking with the effort of holding back his sobs. 

They had never done this before. Not like this. Last night, they’d been too busy planning, talking, trying to work out what to do to ensure their survival, and they’d started to argue, and Aziraphale had yelled that he loved Crowley too much to lose him, and then Crowley had kissed him… 

It was all rather a blur after that. A wonderful, ecstatic blur, but a blur nontheless. 

And nowhere in all of that had this happened, Crowley folding into Aziraphale’s arms like he belonged there, clutching the angel’s coat as he cried quietly. And yet, being here, holding Crowley, comforting him… it felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

“I’m here,” Aziraphale breathed, nuzzling his nose into the demon’s feather-soft, fire-red hair. “I’m here, my love. I’m not going anywhere. Not ever again. Not if you’ll have me.” 

“If I’ll have you,” Crowley scoffed, his voice muffled slightly by Aziraphale’s shirt. “Stupid angel. ‘Course I’ll have you. I’ll have no one but you. If you’ll have me.” 

“I will, my love. I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice gentle. “I have for longer than I could possibly say, and I will for so very, very much longer.” 

“Ngk,” Crowley muttered. “Love you too, angel. Sappy.” 

“I shan’t apologize for that,” said Aziraphale, smiling. 

“Didn’t say I wanted you to.” 

“Good.” 

They lapsed into silence then, Aziraphale slowly stroking Crowley’s back, and eventually Crowley’s tears stopped entirely, and he just lay against his angel, breathing with him. 

Then Crowley pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at Aziraphale, his brow furrowed. His glasses were gone– where to and how, Aziraphale wasn’t sure. 

“Was it– did it hurt?” asked Crowley. “How did– I mean. If you–“ 

“It didn’t hurt,” said Aziraphale reassuringly. “I didn’t discorporate because of the fire, actually. I stepped into the Heavenly circle while it was still charged up.” 

“Oof,” said Crowley, grimacing slightly. “Not fun. Better than burning alive, though.” 

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale, suppressing a shudder at the memory of it, at the recollection of the white-hot agony that spread up from his feet to overwhelm his entire body. “That was deeply unpleasant.” 

Crowley froze, his eyes going wide. 

Aziraphale realised his mistake a second later. 

“Was?” asked Crowley, his voice low. “What do you mean, ‘was’? Have you– did you–“ 

“It was… it was nothing, Crowley, it was several centuries ago now–“ 

“No, I want to know,” said Crowley, pushing himself fully upright once more and taking hold of Aziraphale’s hand again. “I want to know. What happened? When did you burn to death? How many times did you get discorporated that I don’t know about?” 

Aziraphale winced slightly. “Just… just the once, before yesterday. And it was really not a big deal, my darling–“ 

“Don’t you ‘my darling’ me to try and distract me,” said Crowley, his cheeks going pink. 

Aziraphale blinked, his brow furrowing. “That wasn’t–“ 

“When?” Crowley insisted. 

Aziraphale sighed, his gaze dropping to their intwined hands. “It was… it was in 1629. In Würzburg.” 

Crowley’s breath hissed in sharply. “You told me they didn’t hurt you.” 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, biting his lip. 

“Angel…” Crowley breathed. “I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t– I didn’t want–“ 

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to blame yourself, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “You can’t tell me you aren’t blaming yourself.” 

“I’m perfectly allowed to blame myself for something that was my fault,” said Crowley, his voice sharp. 

“It was absolutely not your fault, don’t say that,” said Aziraphale. 

“Why didn’t you miracle yourself out of there?” asked Crowley, his grip tightening slightly on Aziraphale’s hand. “You’d– you’d promised me you’d be safe.” 

“I couldn’t,” said Aziraphale. “I had been– Gabriel– well, after North Berwick, I was told not to use miracles to save myself. It was deemed unnecessary.” 

Aziraphale looked up to see that Crowley’s face was dark with anger, and he flinched back, making to pull his hand away. “Crowley, love, I’m so terribly sorry for having lied to you–“ 

“S’not that,” said Crowley. “M’not mad at you, angel. Never at you. That… that fucking _bastard_ – how is it bloody ‘unnecessary’ to protect your life?” 

Aziraphale let out a small huff of breath. “I… well. It was just a corporation.” 

Then he grimaced. Two chances. He’d gotten two chances, and he’d messed them both up in the end, hadn’t he? 

It was only thanks to Adam, that wonderful, remarkable boy, that he could be here at all. Adam was the reason Aziraphale got a third chance. 

He’d really have to find some way to make it up to the poor boy for trying to kill him at first. 

“Angel?” Crowley breathed. “You alright?” 

“Perfectly,” said Aziraphale, smiling up at his demon. His wonderful, beautiful demon. 

Another thing to thank Adam for, and Agnes Nutter, he supposed. 

“If you say you’re bloody _tickety-boo_ right now, angel, I’m leaving,” Crowley threatened. 

Azirapahle laughed, squeezing Crowley’s hand gently. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t let you.” 

Crowley grinned at that. 

Then his smile fell away, that concerned look in his eyes again. “Angel. You… you were thinking about something, just now. Can you… will you… d’you wanna talk about it?” 

Aziraphale blinked, then sighed, tugging gently on Crowley’s hand to pull him into another embrace. They leaned slowly backwards, onto the sofa, until Aziraphale was lying on his back, Crowley on top of him, wrapped around him far more tightly than should technically have been possible. 

_Darling serpent,_ Aziraphale thought with a smile, resting one hand on the small of Crowley’s back and bringing the other up to stroke gently through Crowley’s hair. 

Oh, how he’d _longed_ to do that, ever since that night. Crowley’s hair was just as soft as he remembered, soft as the down feathers on Aziraphale’s wings and infinitely better-groomed. 

“If you don’t want to talk, angel, you don’t have to,” said Crowley, tilting his head up so he could look Aziraphale in the eye, resting his chin in the middle of Aziraphale’s chest. 

Aziraphale sighed, stretching his head forwards to brush his lips against Crowley’s, just for a moment. 

“Do you… do you really want to hear?” he asked. 

“I want to hear anything and everything you could say to me, angel,” said Crowley. Then he paused, frowning, his brow furrowing. “Except maybe ‘I’m leaving.’ Or something like that. Y’know.” 

“That’s something you’ll never hear from me, my dear,” Aziraphale said, urging Crowley to lie his head down once more with a gentle hand in his beautiful hair. 

They lay there for a moment, while Aziraphale tried to think of the words. 

“When I… when I got to Heaven,” he said, slowly, carefully. “After I was discorporated. The first time, I mean. I was… I was warned… that I only had one more chance. Principalities are only given one backup corporation, you see, and I… well, I was forced to use mine.” 

Crowley didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt. He just lay there, listening, occasionally nuzzling his face into Aziraphale’s chest, occasionally squeezing his arms impossibly tighter around Aziraphale’s waist for a moment. Quiet. Encouraging. 

“I was told… the earlier warning still stood, about the miracles,” said Aziraphale. “I found that out rather later, of course, during the debacle with the fire in London. After it was all over, Gabriel came down to chastise me for teleporting myself to safety.” 

Crowley’s hands tensed on Aziraphale’s coat, but he didn’t speak. He just nodded, encouraging the angel to continue. 

Aziraphale sighed. “So… I had one chance left, and no wiggle room to get it wrong. And I couldn’t actually protect myself. That was why… well, I do tend to have a tendency to get myself into trouble, nature of the sorts of work I had to do, and if it seemed like I always needed you to rescue me…” 

“I didn’t mind,” said Crowley, picking his head up once more. “Never a burden, having to swoop in and save my angel in distress.” He smirked, ever so slightly. “Think you didn’t mind, either. That nonsense with the Bastille was _not_ about some Heavenly duty.” 

Aziraphale blushed, but he didn’t avert his gaze. “No, I suppose it wasn’t, really. And it wasn’t _technically_ the Bastille–“ 

Crowley grinned at that. “You know damn well what I mean.” 

“I do.” 

His grin broadened, and Crowley leaned forwards to kiss Aziraphale, warm and gentle and with a hunger lying deep beneath it. 

Then he drew back, and his brow furrowed in concern. “Angel… are you alright?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale asked. 

“All that… that’s not right,” said Crowley, shaking his head. “You’re not allowed to defend yourself, but you’re punished if you don’t. They sent you into dangerous situations, yelled at you if you got yourself out of ‘em, and threatened to trap you up there with them forever if you didn’t find a way to do it anyways. S’not right. I’m sorry, angel.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” said Aziraphale, frowning. “It’s not your fault I was never particularly good at following directions–“ 

“No,” said Crowley, shaking his head again, more firmly this time. “It’s not about following directions, it never was. Whatever orders you followed, you were set up to lose. Let yourself get discorporated, you can’t come back to Earth.” He shook his head at that, grimacing. “S’bullshit, by the way. ‘One backup corporation.’ Corporations aren’t that hard to get, Hell got plenty for me, and I’m a nobody who didn’t even really need a corporation to begin with. They just wanted to hurt you.” 

Aziraphale blinked at that, his brow furrowing. “Plenty of corporations? Crowley, what–“ 

“It’s Hell, angel,” said Crowley, shrugging. “Killing each other is what they do down there. Didn’t happen to me often, I was up here too much, but I did have occasional performance reviews with Hastur, so… Doesn’t matter now, anyhow. We’re safe.” 

“We are,” Aziraphale confirmed. “But, Crowley, that’s not–“ 

“I’m fine, angel,” said Crowley, his voice firm. 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I’ll want to talk about that later. I mean– i-if you’re willing, of course, I’d never want–” 

“Later,” Crowley promised, pressing another kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. “Right now, I’m trying to convince you that stupid Gabriel and stupid Heaven were setting you up to fail so they could punish you when you did. And that’s not right, angel. It _isn’t_ , no matter what the wankers up there said.” 

“It’s really not so bad as all that, my dear, compared to what you went through in Hell–“ Aziraphale began. 

“Forget about what I went through,” said Crowley, shaking his head. “Angel, don’t get me wrong, I love this about you, but… fuck, you’re so bloody _stubborn_ sometimes. Heaven basically got you killed once, and they tried to do it again–“ 

“Heaven didn’t ‘get me killed’, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, sighing. “What I did in Würzburg… it was the only choice I had. Morally. It was the only thing left that I could possibly have done to hasten the end of the trials, and so many people were suffering. No, I couldn’t have escaped through miraculous means, but…” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “But I was told my life would be spared if I told the confessors that you were a witch, and repented for... for... well, they thought we were in an... intimate relationship. And I couldn’t very well do that, either.” 

Crowley let out a snort of laughter. “Not sure if I should be offended, or flattered that even then they thought I could land you.” 

Aziraphale laughed. “My dear, you had me even then, not that I’d have admitted it.” The smile fell slowly off his face, then, as he continued. “But they... they were certainly quite convinced. They wouldn’t be swayed. They wanted me to _repent_ for... for associating with you. And I refused. I did have a choice, Crowley. I chose to protect you, to protect the humans, even though it meant a few minutes of pain on my end.” 

Crowley’s brow furrowed at that, his face twisting in confusion. “You didn’t want to give me up? I left, angel, like you told me to.” 

“I couldn’t be sure,” said Aziraphale. “You were so incredibly reluctant to leave that I couldn’t tell for certain whether or not you’d actually gone, or whether you’d stay away if you had. I had to do my best to protect you. You’re just as stubborn as I am, sometimes. Especially when it comes to putting your neck on the line.” 

“Putting _my_ neck on the line? Again, which one of us needed to be saved from a bloody beheading– literally, it would’ve been really bloody– because he wanted crepes?” Crowley asked. 

“It was never about the crepes, Crowley, and you know that,” said Aziraphale, pulling Crowley closer. 

Crowley blinked, then sighed, nuzzling his head into Aziraphale’s chest once more. “Yeah. I know. Think I knew then, too. I love you, angel. Even when you’re being stubborn.” He paused. “Especially when you’re being stubborn. Even if it does drive me mad.” 

Aziraphale smiled, warm and contended. “I love you, too, my dear.” 

They lapsed into silence once more, Aziraphale gently running his fingers through Crowley’s wonderful down-soft hair, breathing in the scent of him, relishing in his weight, his warmth. Aziraphale could _have_ this, the one thing he’d been convinced he would never be allowed. He could lie here with Crowley, basking in his presence, _holding_ him in the way he’d longed to for so many centuries. He could love Crowley, freely, openly, and– as bizarre and unbelievable as it was, as little as Aziraphale understood it– Crowley seemed happy to love him back. 

Eventually, Crowley spoke again, his voice half-muffled by Aziraphale’s shirt. “They were awful to you up there, angel.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “It wasn’t really so bad, dearest.” 

“But it was,” said Crowley, his voice achingly gentle. “I went up there, remember? As you. And they just… the way they looked at me– at _you_ –“ He shuddered. “It was awful, angel. I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Aziraphale said, running a soothing hand up Crowley’s back. “I’m sure it was quite unpleasant, but compared to what you’ve been through–“ 

“I’ve already said, what I’ve been through doesn’t change what happened to you,” said Crowley. “And at least Hell’s up front about being awful. They don’t try to hide it. Nice, big, public trial, screams of the damned echoing in every memo, et cetera. They don’t hide it.” 

“I know,” said Aziraphale. “And I’m so terribly–“ 

“Not. About. Me,” said Crowley. “Point is, being so proud of how miserable they are? Makes the actually being miserable thing a bit easier to bear, I think. You expect Hell to be awful. You’re prepared for it. But up there… the awfulness is all hidden. Like… like, ‘nothing to see here, we’re not doing anything terrible at all, move along.’ It’s a quieter kind of awful than Hell is, I think. But the way they looked at me when they thought I was you, angel…” Crowley took a deep breath. “Gabriel wanted you hurt. He wanted you to die. And you… you said I got a trial, and yeah, it was a show trial, but they went through the motions. If it’d been lesser offenses than trying to stop Armageddon, and if the demon on trial were a bit smoother than me, they could’ve wriggled their way out of it. But up there… you didn’t get a trial. Didn’t even get an audience, really. Just Gabriel, Uriel, and Sandalphon, staring at me– at you, waiting for you to die.” He shuddered again. “They didn’t smack me around or anything– well, they told Eric he could hit me– you– but I scared him off before he did. And then… then they just took the ropes off my wrists, and Gabriel literally said to ‘shut up and die already’. Those words, angel. And they just… waited. No guards. No back-up measures. Just, walk into the hellfire, go willingly to your death, if you please.” Crowley lifted his head, staring at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale noticed in horror that his beautiful amber eyes were damp with tears. 

“My dearest…” Aziraphale murmured, the hand in Crowley’s hair sliding down to cup his cheek. 

“Would you have?” Crowley asked, leaning into Aziraphale’s hand. “If we hadn’t figured it out. If… if you’d been up there, instead of me. Would you have done it? Just walked into the fire?” 

Aziraphale bit his lip. He knew the answer, of course. He’d rejected Heaven during Armageddon, but if he’d been back up there, in that cold, sterile place, surrounded by the archangels… if Crowley had been condemned as well, likely already dead by the time the fire was summoned… 

“Angel,” Crowley breathed. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed. He couldn’t lie. Not with Crowley staring at him like that. “I… I would’ve. If we hadn’t figured it out, and you’d been condemned to death as well… then yes, I would have.” 

“And if I hadn’t?” Crowley asked. “If I was waiting for you, down here?” 

Aziraphale closed his eyes against the intensity of Crowley’s stare. “I’m not… I’m not sure. It’s… it’s possible.” 

Crowley’s breath hissed out of him, slowly, and he shifted his head so his cheek was against Aziraphale’s chest once more. “Got it right, then.” 

Aziraphale opened his eyes, frowning. “What?” 

“I thought you might,” said Crowley. “But I wasn’t sure.” He let out a little huff of laughter. “Think that’s the only thing I did get right, up there. I was _so angry_ , angel. I almost punched the Archangel _fucking_ Gabriel in the bloody face. I was just… that they treated you like that…” He sighed. “How long, then? How long was it like that, for you?” 

“It was never ‘like that’, dearest,” said Aziraphale, doing his best to sound soothing. “Not really.” 

“Nah, Heaven just wore away at all your self-confidence and sense of autonomy and self-preservation until you were afraid to protect your own bloody life here on Earth– the only one you thought you had, whether or not that was actually a lie– and would walk into a column of hellfire because Gabriel told you to. No big deal, that,” Crowley scoffed. 

Then he softened, pressing a brief, gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. 

“How long?” he asked again. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and sighed again. “They’ve… well. They’ve always treated me in pretty much the same way. But it really wasn’t so bad, dearest, I swear. Gabriel made some… comments, I suppose. Well. Rather a lot of comments. And if I was… talking back, he’d… remind me. Who was in charge. But that only happened a handful of times–“ 

“Remind you?” Crowley interrupted. “Angel, did Gabriel _hit_ you?” 

“Only a couple of times,” said Aziraphale quickly. “It was really nothing, I promise–“ 

“That’s it,” said Crowley, shifting like he was about to stand. “I’m going back up there and I’m killing him.” 

“Crowley, no!” Aziraphale said sharply, tugging Crowley back down on top of him, wrapping his arms around the demon to hold him still. 

“He _hurt_ you, angel,” Crowley protested, though he didn’t move to leave again. “I can’t– I can’t just–“ 

“You can, and you will,” Aziraphale said. “You can’t possibly win in a fight against an Archangel, Crowley. He’ll destroy you.” Aziraphale heard an echo of his own voice, ringing through the ages. All the times he’d worried for Crowley’s safety. All the times he’d tried to protect him. 

All the times he’d failed. 

“I know,” said Crowley, collapsing fully against Aziraphale once more. “I know, angel. I just… fuck. I’m sorry. I’m sorry it took me so long to get you out of there.” 

“My dear, that was never your responsibility,” Aziraphale said immediately. “I would never have left Heaven under your direction.” 

_You were an angel once. We’re not friends. I don’t even like you. It’s over._

Aziraphale winced. “I’m sorry, by the way. For… for all the things I said, at the bandstand… I didn’t mean it, not any of it, and I know that’s hardly an excuse but I–“ 

“S’alright, angel,” Crowley said. “It… I mean, I won’t lie, it hurt, but I said some shit, too. And I said I’d just leave you here, alone, while you were still trying... I’m sorry, too.” 

”My love, don’t be sorry, please.” 

”Doesn’t much matter now. I came back for you, didn’t I?” 

“You did,” Aziraphale said, smiling softly. “And I can never repay you for it.” 

“You already have, angel. It’s thanks to you that the world’s not a big puddle of burning goo. Think that’s plenty.” 

“But... but I didn’t do anything.” 

“You stood up to Gabriel and Beelzebub, defended Adam, while I was just standing there like an idiot. And then when Satan showed up, I gave up. You didn’t. You pushed me on, and then we gave Adam enough time to figure out a plan and save us all. That was all you, angel. Well. You and Adam. Point is, you didn’t do nothing. You saved the bloody world.” 

Aziraphale laughed lightly. “If _I_ saved the world, then I can’t even imagine what it is you’ve done.” 

“Backed you up,” said Crowley. “Like always. That’s my job.” 

Aziraphale felt as though there was an ache deep in his chest. “Oh, I love you, Crowley. More than anything.” 

“Ngk,” Crowley muttered, lowering his head to bury his swiftly-reddening face in Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “Love you too, angel.” 

Aziraphale fell silent, holding Crowley close, stroking his hair once more. Heaven and Hell… both had been bad, in their own ways. Heaven had been bad. But now… now, they were free. They were safe. And they were together. 

And, really, so long as they had that, nothing else mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked this mess!!! Comments and kudos are super duper appreciated!


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